


Heads Up, Peter!

by My_Alter_Ego



Series: White Collar Discussions [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Art Forgeries, Assassins with Sniper Rifles, Gen, Phone Calls and Close Calls, Pre-Series Fiction, Serbian Mobsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 00:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: When Neal agrees to paint some forgeries for a client, it puts Peter in grave danger and Neal must figure out how to fix it. A pre-series drama that highlights the beginning of a buddy dynamic between the con man and the FBI agent trying to catch him.





	Heads Up, Peter!

“It’s really not my fault,” Neal reasoned with himself in a rare moment of introspection. But if he were being honest, it kinda was. The word “honest” was something of an oxymoron when you applied it to Neal Caffrey—thief, con artist, and forger. He had spent the greater part of his young life living and thriving outside the confines of the law, and he never had any dichotomies of the soul about that state of affairs. It was exhilarating, lucrative, and just plain fun to thumb his nose at convention. He was a renegade and probably always would be. But now he was suffering some pangs of angst. Damn! Maybe he really was afflicted with something called a conscience.

It had begun innocently enough. Again, “innocently” being something of a misnomer in this situation. Neal had accepted a commission to do some paintings for Aiden Radko, an Americanized alias that Serbian mobster, Adrijan Radic, had adopted when he illegally snuck into the States some years ago. Radko/Radic had done well for himself in his new country, quickly setting up a string of brothels, and also situating himself smack dab in the middle of various enterprises smuggling narcotics and illegal weapons. Of course, Neal had standards, and he didn’t want any parts of that, but art was a whole other ballgame. Nobody ever got hurt because of a painting—well, maybe that was no longer an accurate or reliable assumption.

Radko was making mega-bucks, hand over fist, and he needed to somehow lauder his cash flow. Some bright bulb in his little cadre of gangsters came up with a “brilliant” idea. This imaginative cohort had acquired a list of artwork done by the great masters over the centuries that had been lost in antiquity. In a nutshell, Radko now wanted Neal to paint accurate replicas of those missing works, which the mobster would then meticulously document with photographs and other fraudulent authentication paperwork before selling them to anonymous private collectors abroad. He would claim that the ersatz masterpieces were the real deal suddenly unearthed in somebody’s attic. Of course, those “collectors” who purchased the fakes were really just fictitious names for people who didn’t exist, as were the stupendous payments which Radko received from the customers for the sales. Nonetheless, that was the yearly revenue that Radko would write on his income tax return when he signed the form and added his nebulous occupation as “entrepreneur.” At that point, a good portion of his own dirty money could be safely deposited in a legitimate United States bank, with no one suspecting the razzle-dazzle sleight of hand.

Neal had a sit down with Radko over glasses of strong Serbian rakija while they hammered out an agreement after much Irish/Balkan haggling. By the end of the night, Neal promised to paint five masterpieces over the span of three months at $50,000 a canvas. Money would be paid out incrementally as each painting was completed, and when the deal was all done, Neal would have earned a quick $250,000 for his time and effort. That would keep him and Mozzie in groceries for a while. Radko would then “sell” them for millions, and that would keep his legitimate bank account happy and healthy, too.

Neal began his endeavor by reproducing Leonardo da Vinci’s fabled work, the “Medusa Shield.” The last mention of that mysterious work was by art historian, Giorgio Vasari, way back in 1550. The Florentine chronicler actually alluded to the fact that the whole concept of the questionable work was a myth. Neal’s rendition of a scary lady having a really bad hair day, however, was very realistic.

The second painting, Gustave Courbert’s “The Stone Breakers,” had been created in 1849 and portrayed a gritty representation of laborers at work. It had found a home in Dresden, Germany until 1945 when it was thought to have been destroyed by Allied bombing of the city during World War II. According to Radko’s provenance, the masterpiece had been secretly smuggled out of Germany a year before by the Nazis.

The current painting in progress on Neal’s easel was Caravaggio’s “Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence,” a sepia-toned work of art. It had hung in a Palermo, Italy gallery until it was stolen in 1969. Initially, the Sicilian Mafia were thought to be the culprits in that heist. Over time, some informants claimed that the masterpiece had been destroyed while being cut from its frame, while others swore that it had been damaged by animals while hidden in a barn until it was later burned. The painting’s fate remained a mystery until Radko claimed he had found it and then attached a 20-million-dollar price tag.

There were still two more masterpieces on Neal’s agenda, both stolen by armed men in 2006 from the Museu Chacara do Céu in Rio de Janeiro. To date, the art had not been recovered until Neal and Radko made it so. These paintings included Monet’s “Marine,” and Matisse’s “The Garden of Luxembourg.”

As Neal delivered the last painting to Radko, he offered a bit of wise advice. “Don’t make these available all at once, my friend. If you suddenly flood the market with long-lost masterpieces, that’s going to raise some eyebrows and get the authorities interested in you. You really don’t want that. Keep a low profile and a lid on things—maybe parcel them out over the course of a few years.”

“Mr. Caffrey, do I tell you how to paint a picture?” Radko asked with a raised eyebrow. “Of course not,” the mobster answered his own question. “Out of respect, do not tell me how to run my own enterprises. That is _my_ concern, not yours.”

“Point taken,” Neal said deferentially. “It’s been nice doing business with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Aiden Radko’s illegal commercial ventures did extremely well during the last business quarter of the year. The man had become as rich as Midas but was hampered by a bank account that didn’t allow him the possibility of living the kind of American dream that he had in mind. He desired the luxurious penthouse in Manhattan, the summer home with a sleek catamaran on Long Island, and the Tesla Model X to ferry him back and forth between the two. The mobster wanted instant gratification, so he “sold” all the fake masterpiece paintings in the space of one month, banked the huge windfall, and then began spending like a teenager with Daddy’s Amex Centurion Card. The impetuous man actually got much more than he bargained on after that rash move. Just as Neal had predicted, he had attracted quite a bit of attention, specifically from the Feds and one particular agent named Peter Burke.

~~~~~~~~~~

“The Treasury Department gave us a heads up,” Peter explained to Diana and Jones. The two White Collar agents were being briefed by their boss in the conference room on the 21st floor of the Federal Building in Manhattan. “The IRS red-flagged an individual named Aiden Radko, a fellow who seemed to have unearthed a real treasure trove and made a bundle of money in a very short time. The Federal accountants began going over everything with a fine-tooth comb but came up empty-handed. However, they smelled something fishy. Ergo, they moved it up the food chain to Treasury, who then passed the baton to us.”

“That’s because Radko’s sudden source of serendipitous wealth was some long-lost art masterpieces,” Diana said as she immediately got the picture.

“Exactly,” Peter agreed. “He claims that he ‘found’ them in some dusty attic.”

“Were they authenticated?” Jones asked.

“Yep, all five of them,” Peter confirmed. “Canvases, paints, and artist signatures all passed the litmus test for authenticity, but it still seems kinda farfetched that they all suddenly materialized in one place, some after several centuries of being lost.”

“Who owned the house with the attic?” Diana asked logically.

“Radko claims it was an abandoned property in Little Odessa that was supposed to be razed to make way for high rise apartments. The Housing Authority searched their database but couldn’t provide the names of any previous owners. Radko says that he likes to search for antiques or curiosities that he can sell online, so he was just eager to know if the old house had anything of value within its crumbling walls.”

“And he just happened to stumble upon Aladdin’s Cave,” Jones said skeptically.

“Uh huh,” Peter replied sarcastically. “Now here’s where the plot thickens. Radko provided the names of the persons who purchased the art—all Europeans and Asians who mysteriously can’t currently be located by Interpol.”

“Do you think that Radko is really part of a crew who stole the stuff?” Diana asked thoughtfully as she scanned the paperwork. “That seems farfetched, too, since the disappearance of the works spans hundreds of years, not to mention that they were all housed over different parts of the globe.”

“Yeah, a real conundrum,” Peter snorted. “I think this whole thing is a scam, and regardless of the authentication, these works of art are bogus. Some very talented forger is passing off his replicas through Radko. I’d like to follow the money trail, but we don’t have enough probable cause to subpoena his banking records or search his homes.”

“So, what can we do?” Jones asked the obvious question.

“I’m going to pay a suddenly wealthy Mr. Radko a visit and rattle his cage,” Peter said ominously. “If I make him nervous because the FBI has taken an interest in him, he just may make a mistake.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“The word on the street is that your little buddy, Aiden Radko, has taken out a hit on your other ‘buddy,’ Special Agent Peter Burke,” Mozzie informed Neal one evening over a glass of Merlot.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Neal snorted. “Is the mobster really brazen enough to take out a Fed?”

“Apparently so,” Mozzie said with a blasé air.

“No, no, no—that is just so wrong,” Neal said worriedly.

“Why do you care?” Mozzie asked curiously. “Burke’s been on your tail for months. If he bites it, that’s one less pesky obstacle in your path. You should be thankful that Radko is helping you out of what could become a very sticky situation, which, I might add, is of your making. Striking up a personal relationship with your own version of Victor Hugo’s Inspector Javert is just risky and dumb. You are not Jean Valjean in _Les Misérables_, my friend. You’ve stolen more than a loaf of bread.”

“But Peter Burke has a wife—and even a dog, Moz,” Neal said miserably.

“And that matters why?” Mozzie seemed perplexed. “Look, Neal, Burke knew the risks when he signed on with the J Edgar Hoover team. It’s not your worry if he placed himself in jeopardy.”

“But it was because of what I did for Radko that got him interested, and now he’s in the mobster’s crosshairs,” Neal argued.

“Everything is not always about you, my friend. What will be, will be,” the little man predicted.

But Neal didn’t see it that way. The next morning, he managed to find one of the few remaining free-standing public land lines in New York City. The con man knew Peter Burke’s personal cellphone number by heart, and he was relieved when the agent answered.

“Hey, Agent Burke,” Neal sang out. “How are things in your neck of the woods?”

“Caffrey!” Peter said with a resigned air. By this time, Peter was familiar with the con man’s voice. He had heard it often enough in the past when the little twerp called to gloat or to yank Peter’s chain during their epic chase.

“Yep, it’s me,” Neal agreed. “Don’t bother trying to trace this call. It’s actually a payphone right here in Manhattan, but I’ll be long gone before your tech wizards can triangulate the location.”

“What happened, Neal? Did you run out of burners?” Peter asked sarcastically.

“Maybe,” Neal equivocated. “Listen, Peter, this is sort of an emergency. There’s something that you need to know.”

“Well, why don’t you come down to my playhouse, Buddy, and you can fill me in. We have some pretty decent coffee here, and I’ll even take the handcuffs off so that you can pick up the mug more easily,” Peter deadpanned.

“Get serious, Peter, this is a situation that could mean life or death,” Neal stressed. “You’ve been sticking your nose into Aiden Radko’s business, and now there’s a hit out on you.”

“What do you know about Radko?” Peter demanded.

“I know that his real identity is Adrijan Radic, a very dangerous Serbian mobster,” Neal said quickly. “Surely you were aware of that fact.”

When there was only silence, Neal continued in exasperation. “You didn’t know, did you! How can government agencies function if they don’t talk to one another? Why didn’t Immigration or Homeland Security or some other bumfuck group with an acronym give you a heads up? Weren’t those departments specifically created to keep track of really bad guys?”

“How do you know about any contract taken out on me,” Peter asked suspiciously.

“I keep my ear to the ground,” Neal claimed innocently. “Listen, Buddy, I kinda like you, and I wouldn’t want anything dire to happen to you. Who knows who would replace you, and I don’t want to start at ground zero with another bloodhound on my scent.”

“Are you part of this, Neal?” Peter asked harshly.

“Peter, I’m trying to save your life,” Neal insisted. “Put your suspicion, your pride, and your dogged integrity aside and back off of Radko. Elizabeth shouldn’t become a widow because you’re hardheaded.” Suddenly, Peter heard a click and the line went dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was right. Peter did have a suspicious nature, and that’s what made him a good Federal agent. Right now, those nebulous “suspicions” were niggling at his mind. Neal Caffrey was an excellent forger, good enough to hoodwink even the most experienced art authenticator. Were those stupendously valuable paintings something that he had created? Was the young fool abetting a mobster and now having pangs of regret about putting Peter in danger? One thing that Peter did know about Caffrey, or at least thought he knew, was that Neal abhorred violence of any kind. All of his marks wound up either loving or admiring him. Would he have been impetuous enough to get into bed with somebody who had no problem with bloodshed? Peter needed to verify, so his first step was to place a call to the boys in the “Organized Crime” division of the FBI. He needed to connect the dots, if they even existed. Caffrey could just be blowing smoke.

After several Federal agencies reluctantly liaisoned, Peter had his answer. Although they had no real proof, it was suspected that Radko was actually Radic. He was on a watchlist, but, so far, he hadn’t slipped up. Peter wasn’t about to back off in his own crusade to obtain justice, but he did begin wearing a tactical protective vest under his clothes. He knew that would provide little protection if an assassin took a head shot. Nonetheless, Peter Burke soldiered on.

Three days later, Peter with his vest in place, exited his townhouse and was about to open the door to his Ford Taurus parked at the curb. From out of nowhere, he suddenly was startled by a bullhorn that was telling him to “Duck down, Suit!!” Although he didn’t immediately drop to all fours, Peter spun around trying to ascertain where that loud voice had originated, and that move saved him from a bullet that slammed into the brick façade of a home behind him. When the local police and the White Collar agents later meticulously prowled the scene, they located a Spritzer round, a type of ammo popular with thugs using a sniper weapon. Street cams were scrutinized and witnesses were questioned. One motorist claimed that a speeding Yellow Cab cut him off on a nearby unmonitored side street, but unfortunately, the guy didn’t get a plate or medallion number.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay, mon frère, I did my civic duty as a personal favor to you,” Mozzie shivered in distaste as he related the incident to Neal later that day.

“I owe you, Moz. Thanks for your very timely assistance. That will surely earn you some Brownie points when you get to the Pearly Gates,” Neal assured his friend.

“I’m not so sure Heaven is actually where I’ll eventually wind up,” Mozzie said with a grimace. “But, seriously, Neal, we can’t keep babysitting the Suit 24/7. I’m done.”

“Maybe there’s something else you can do from the safety of your laptop,” Neal mused. “If you can prove that Radko is really Radic and tie him to all his illegal enterprises, he can be taken out of play. If he’s languishing in custody and his assets are frozen by the Feds, the assassin will realize he’s never going to get paid and he’ll fade back into the woodwork. In the meantime, I’ll take over surveillance and be Peter’s protective detail.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” Mozzie groused, “and I’m not talking about Radko.”

“Please, Mozzie,” Neal cajoled. “I’ll buy you a case of any wine of your choosing, price be damned.”

“You play dirty, Neal,” Mozzie quipped as he, nonetheless, set off for one of his safe houses and his technical lab with its assortment of powerful computers all signed onto the Dark Web. Maybe a few anonymously placed inquiries on some message boards could point him in the right direction.

In the meantime, Neal did his own due diligence and shadowed his nemesis like white on rice. Damn it, why was Peter stubbornly tempting fate by strolling around like the cock of the walk when he knew he was a friggin’ target? That was a question Neal kept asking himself as two more days unfolded.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter was still vigilant, but, nevertheless, he needed to be at work each day. On a Wednesday morning, he was tooling along in the access lane to the Brooklyn Bridge that would take him into Manhattan when traffic came to a dead stop. Peter saw people jump from their cars with cell phones to their ears as they abandoned their vehicles and hurried toward the 1500 foot suspension system that spanned the East River.

“What’s going on?” he yelled to one pedestrian as the guy trotted past Peter’s open window.

“Some dude’s getting ready to jump,” the man called over his shoulder as he quickened his pace.

“Lookie-Loos,” Peter muttered to himself, “hell bent on getting their thrills by watching some poor soul commit suicide. That’s just depraved!” Nonetheless, Peter climbed from his car as well, and was all set to call 9-1-1 after he verified the situation. He moved to just where the span began its arc over the river and squinted up into the rising sun. That was just in time to see a body drop like a stone over the railing and hit the water with a splash.

Peter never managed to push the “connect” button on his phone because he suddenly heard a loud voice filter down from above. _“Heads up, Peter!”_ When he glanced above him, Peter noted a dark figure perched atop the bridge with a sniper rifle pointed in his direction. Peter didn’t have time to react because, all at once, that menacing vision was catapulted over the railing, and he and his deadly weapon were on their way into the drink, as well. Unbelievably, Neal Caffrey came into view exactly in the spot where a would-be assassin had been standing. The con man stared down at the stunned FBI agent and gave a two-fingered salute before disappearing into the mob of pedestrian traffic on the bridge.

Peter called it in and eventually a NYPD Harbor Patrol boat fished two waterlogged figures out of the East River. One was an actual human being, and the other was a department store mannequin. Obviously the suicidal “jumper” was meant to be a red herring to entice Peter from his car. The real live person who had been forcibly helped over the railing by Neal Caffrey had, amazingly, suffered no life threatening injuries. The river wasn’t as deep at that point, nor was the bridge as elevated. If he had swan dived from the 276 vertical apex in the middle of the span, the end result would have been quite a different story.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter made his way to the interrogation room and looked down on a swarthy-looking tough guy manacled to the table. His fingerprints had identified him as a Serbian mercenary from Belgrade who was wanted in that country for former atrocities committed in the early 1990s against the Albanians in Kosovo. Before Peter could utter a word, the brute started ranting. “You have no right to arrest me,” he sputtered. “I’m the victim here. Some crazy bastard threw me over a bridge railing into the river. He’s the one you should arrest!”

“I assure you, we are looking for that individual,” Peter said calmly. “But we do have you on an illegal dumping charge. However, certain things have come to light about you quite recently, so we’re willing to forgo prosecuting you for that misdemeanor. That, my friend, is because another Balkan country is very eager to have you extradited to stand trial for much more serious crimes.”

The mercenary glared up at Peter for a half beat before coming to a decision. “Look, maybe I can help you guys out if you cut me a break. I may be able to hand you a very big fish.”

“Are you talking about Adrijan Radic, by any chance?” Peter said with his eyebrows raised. “Unfortunately, you’re a little late to the party. We already have a complete dossier on that criminal. It was actually handed to us on a silver platter. So, no deal for you.”

The information Peter was referring to was an in-depth profile of the life and times of the Serbian mobster. It had been hand delivered that morning by an undocumented courier service. The FBI now had hard proof that Aiden Radko was really the infamous Radic. They also had evidence that he was behind enterprises that included human trafficking of young girls from the former Yugoslavian country to work in his brothels, as well as being a kingpin in the narcotics and arms trade here in the United States. He was already languishing in an FBI cell and facing a trial which would probably result in a very long prison sentence in a federal penitentiary. Suddenly, life seemed good to Peter. He really wasn’t very surprised when he received another call on his personal cellphone several nights later.

“Did you take care of business, Agent Burke?” Neal asked nonchalantly.

“Yep, everything’s tied up with a neat little red bow,” Peter said jovially. “I suppose I have you to thank for that as well as for saving my life,” he added more seriously.

“Aw, shucks, Peter. It was nothing,” Neal said breezily.

“You in town?” Peter asked. “I could buy you a drink.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” Neal chuckled. “Actually, I’m not in town. I thought it best to take a little vacation away from New York. I may have burned some _bridges_—if you get my drift.”

Peter smiled into the phone at the clever play on words. “I heard what you just did, Neal, as well as the implication. You may think you’re very entertainingly witty, but you really should think things through before you throw in with some clients who are very bad people,” Peter was again serious. “You could put your own self in harm’s way.”

“Peter, I’m not sure I get your meaning,” Neal was all about denial.

“Okay, then we’ll leave it at ‘Thank you’ with no lectures,” Peter conceded. Before Neal could abruptly end the call as was his habit, Peter managed to get in the last word. “Keep in touch, Neal. I’ll always take your calls and be ready to listen.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Three months later, those pesky little paintings surfaced again. They had been rediscovered by a Bronx man who won an auction bid on a local storage locker that had been abandoned. The FBI quickly confiscated them and their experts were in the process of inspecting the supposed authenticity of the masterpieces. Peter paid a visit to the art aficionados’ lab and made a suggestion. “Use a magnifying glass and go over them inch by inch. Specifically, look for the initials _N C_,” he said with a little Cheshire Cat smile on his face.


End file.
